


Felty Goodness

by voleuse



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-29
Updated: 2004-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smut.  With puppets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Felty Goodness

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 5.14.

  
"Nina did quite a bit of damage," Wesley murmurs, the pads of his fingers holding Angel's shoulder steady. "You're lucky this fabric was sturdy enough to hold together."

The needle slides smoothly through the outer layer, a sharp poke and then...nothing. A numb sort of awareness as the thread passes through, but otherwise, there's no sensation in his skin. Angel's had his real body stitched before, and it's never felt like this.

Of course, he's never actually been felt before, so a new, less-painful form of surgery isn't completely out of the blue. It's certainly welcome.

Maybe being a puppet isn't _completely_ a bad thing.

There is, however, the humiliation of lying face down, spread-eagled in Wesley's lap in order to be properly repaired. His clothes are in a little puddle on the floor, and Wesley is stuffing cotton into his torso.

Also, there are portions of his new anatomy that he hadn't wanted to share with the others.

Wolfram and Hart, unfortunately, no longer employs toy surgeons (not after the unfortunate Barbie possession incident, anyway), so Lorne had found the closest person who knew how to stitch wounds and/or buttonholes.

Wesley.

It wouldn't have been so bad, really, if he didn't need to be naked for the operation. Or conscious.

Angel might not be experiencing pain as acutely as he usually does, but that doesn't mean he's completely lacking in sensation. He can feel Wesley's fingers tugging on his felt, tickling the edges of the tear. Delving quickly as he restores the cotton to its proper shape. Smoothing the edges down after he ties off the thread.

"How's that?" Wesley prods another bit of cotton into Angel's torso.

"Um." Angel tries not to squirm. "Fine."

Pleasure, apparently, is something that puppets do feel acutely, and Angel's aware of its concentration in one particular place.

In something a puppet shouldn't, by all rights, possess.

Wesley's leg bounces again, and it strokes Angel just right. He feels himself, not harden, but become pliable, _flex_ instead of fold. Angel bites down on his lip, stifling a groan. He pushes his hips down, suppresses a shudder at the tingling that rushes through him.

Then Wesley finishes his sewing.

"There," he pronounces. "That's the last stitch." He strokes the seam, and Angel almost whimpers. "Not a bad job, I must say." There's a _clink_ as Wesley sets the needle and thread on his desk.

"Thanks," Angel manages.

"Up you go, then." Wesley slips a hand between his knee and Angel's chest.

Angel panics. "Wes, wait--"

Too late. Wesley flips Angel over, smiling, and then notices--

"Dear God." His gaze is riveted on the plush springing from Angel. "I had no idea that--"

"Yeah." Angel fights the temptation to cover his groin. "I didn't either, until now."

Angel decides that lying face up, spread-eagled on Wesley's knee is a little more humiliating than the other way around.

He starts to wish his clothes were on, and then Wesley's hand smoothes over his legs (they don't look like much, when he's not walking) and _up_.

"Motherf--"

Wesley interrupts with a gentle squeeze, and the words strangle in his throat. Angel thrusts his hips against Wesley's palm, which seems so very broad now, where it seemed delicate before. "How does that feel?" he murmurs. He sounds almost detached, academically curious.

"God, Wes," Angel pants. His body strains, his arms flop against Wesley's thighs. "Keep--Don't--" He finishes his description with an inarticulate yell, slamming his head back against Wesley's knee as his body pulses.

When he comes to, Wesley is examining his hand. "Dry," he mutters.

"Wes?"

Wesley blinks, looks down at Angel. "Can you drink blood, I wonder."

Angel tilts his head, sits up on Wesley's knee. "I can change." He lets his face slide into its natural form. "See?"

Wesley nods. "Yes, but you don't have blood in your veins. You don't have veins, actually," he muses, "so why bother with fangs?"

Angel shifts back to his human, er, puppet face. "I never thought about it." He stretches his arms, then, and his legs, and as his foot brushes across Wesley's thighs, he discovers something.

"Uh, Wesley?"

"Yes?" His voice is a little less abstract.

He rubs his foot against the bulge in Wesley's trousers. "Are you--"

"Yes."

"Would you like me to--"

Wesley growls, then, and bucks his hips, almost dislodging Angel in the process.

Angel takes that for consent, and scoots forward, fumbles with Wesley's zipper.

His fingers are wide compared to the metal tab, and too clumsy. He tries to grasp it between his thumb and his forefinger, but it evades him.

"Stupid felt fingers!"

Wesley laughs and gently pushes Angel's hands away. "Let me." He eases the zipper down in a moment, lifting his hips slightly as Angel reaches out to touch him.

Angel uses both hands, his fingers overlapping to encircle Wesley's cock. slowly, slowly, he draws his hands down, and up, and up again, until Wesley's moaning incoherently, a slur of obscenities and epithets and _Angel_.

Smiling, Angel scoots forward again, the drag of Wesley's leg between his thighs arousing him again. He quickens the pumping of his hands, rocking against Wesley in counterpoint.

The angle isn't quite right, but then Wesley picks Angel up, shifts his seat on the chair to allow Angel space between his legs. Angel balances precariously, but grips Wesley's cock firmly, rubbing his own against whatever skin he can reach.

Wesley's close, he can tell, as his thrusts become jagged and his moans even more so. Angel's not quite there yet, not yet, but then Wesley reaches around and delves his finger into those mysterious puppet parts.

Angel gasps and comes again, tightening his hands around Wesley's cock as he jerks against him. Then Wesley's coming, too, in a quiet splatter against Angel's felt.

Wesley looks embarrassed after he finishes. "Sorry." He dabs at the dampness spreading over Angel's skin. "I should have thought about--"

The door opens. "Harm said you were in here, and I wanted to ask--" Spike freezes as he takes in the scene in front of him. Then he grins.

"Spike, wait!" Angel shouts. But it's too late.

Angel and Wesley stare at the closed door.

"This is going to be bad, isn't it?" Angel asks as he hops off Wesley's leg.

"I'm afraid so."

"Should we just deny it?"

"Let's never speak of it again."

"Works for me."


End file.
